Christmas Present
by gopadfoot
Summary: Sherlock gives Magnussen a Christmas present, something a bit different than what one would expect. The stakes are higher, and the fallout might be catastrophic. Can Sherlock carry through with his plan? This story is now rated T, for somewhat dark themes, and Magnussen being a creep, but it's not more than in the show. AU of HLV.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock had promised Magnussen a Christmas present, and he was going to deliver. Not even the British Government would stand in his way.

"He is not a dragon for you to slay," Mycroft had said sternly. As if Mycroft understood anything. He didn't grasp how dangerous the man was, how far that man would go to achieve his goals. Magnussen had to be defeated, and Sherlock would be the one to do it, no matter what Big Brother said.

They had shared a brotherly moment, smoking their cigarettes while walking the grounds. Their conversation had even been somewhat friendly, lacking the usual aggressive bickering. Sherlock was almost beginning to regret his decision. Almost.

Then Mycroft gave Sherlock a gift that he couldn't refuse, but neither could he accept. "Your loss would break my heart" he had said, blurting it out as quickly as one would get rid of burning coals. Sherlock sputtered, and then retorted in an aggrieved tone , "What the hell am I supposed to say to _that?_ " Because there was nothing he could say. Mycroft had given him the gift of his heart, and Sherlock knew of no way to refuse it. Neither could Sherlock readily accept it, not with what he was about to do. Not when he was going to betray his brother.

"I'm sorry, brother mine," he whispered when Mycroft had gone inside. "It has to be done."

Now Sherlock was facing an indignant John, furious at the detective for having drugged his pregnant wife. "She's alright, John," Sherlock reassured him. "Billy is an expert chemist."

He made his rounds, checking the breathing of the unconscious family. He lingered a bit by Mycroft. He then prodded his brother, poked him, and shook him. When he was satisfied, he turned to John. "Give me a hand."

"Huh?" the doctor said.

"We need to lift him, carry him onto the helicopter."

"WHAT... ARE YOU INSANE!?" John yelled.

"I'm merely fulfilling my end of the bargain. One Mycroft Holmes, in exchange for all the material Magnussen has on Mary."

"Sherlock... Sherlock," John said, his voice going soft and gentle, as if talking to a child. "You know you can't do that. I don't know what Magnussen wants with him, but this is a bit no good. You are kidnapping a government official, and handing him over to an enemy. Not to mention that he happens to be your own brother, and although you don't always get along, I'm sure you don't want to harm him. This is serious, Sherlock; this isn't a game."

"Of course it's not a game; this is a deal. Don't worry so much, John, I do have a plan. Just follow along, and let's hope nothing goes wrong."

"And if something does?" asked the doctor, holding his breath.

"Then we'll be charged with kidnapping, assault, and high treason, among others. But I do believe my strategy is sound."

The poor ex-soldier opened and closed his mouth several times, not uttering a sound. Then he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. "Why, Sherlock? Why are you doing this?"

"For you. This is the only way to save all three of you. Believe me, I wouldn't have done this if I could have thought of a better way."

"Alright," John choked out. "But Mycroft... if something happens to Mycroft... what will you do then?"

"Magnussen won't kill him," Sherlock said crisply. "He will likely use him as a bargaining chip. If- if anything does happen, the responsibility is mine, and mine alone, and has nothing to do with you. Is that clear?"

John sighed. "I think it's time to start praying again."

"Let's go, John. Magnussen is waiting for his gift."

They approached the unconscious government official. Sherlock lightly touched his brother's shoulder, and other observed his brother's face. "Let's go, brother mine," he said softly, a hint of regret in his voice.

The two men carried the third one onto the waiting helicopter.

 **A/N:** I was given a prompt by _blackcat55,_ who asked: "Magnussen wants something for Christmas, Sherlock said my brother: maybe you could make a story where Mycroft really is the delivered present." So I wrote this.

I liking making stories in two parts, partly to keep you all in suspense, and partly to judge the interest in a particular story. This can stand as a one-shot, but I'll add another part if I'm asked;) If you would rather read a story in one shot, let me know, and I'll consider it for next time. As always, I hope you enjoy!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** First of all, wow, wow, and wow again. I was completely taken aback by the response to the first chapter. Eighteen reviews for under a thousand words. I've decided to expand the story a bit, so here you have a much longer chapter, with the final chapter coming up soon. I really, really, appreciate your feedback, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the story!

* * *

The helicopter managed a smooth ride, slicing through the air like butter. It definitely could not be blamed for the queasiness preoccupying two of its occupants. When the ride was over, several security guards motioned to the two to take the unconscious man with them.

The duo were out of breath by the time they arrived inside the man who liked to sign off with the initials of his name, CAM, greeted them calmly. "Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Ah, I see you've brought my Christmas present."

"You could have offered us some assistance," Sherlock snapped at him. "His diet wasn't going so well. It wasn't easy carrying him in."

"It was your choice of gift, so you can't really complain," CAM said nonchalantly, and poured himself a drink. "I would offer you some, but it's very expensive. Ahhhh, delicious." He drank to the last drop.

"By the way, I'm afraid I can't accept your gift just yet," the magnate told the detective.

"It's not a gift, it's an exchange," Sherlock replied tetchily.

"Oh, but it's Christmas today, isn't it? Exchange of gifts is customary. I like mine well wrapped, or I can't accept it."

"What do you mean by that? Should we have wrapped him with wrapping paper and tinsel?" John asked in confusion.

Magnussen was looking up at the wall across him and smiling dreamily. "Go ahead, Sherlock."

There, on the wall, were handcuffs, chains, and a long piece of rope. "Don't mind me. I'd love to watch."

Sherlock swallowed hard, and then advanced to the wall. Slowly, he gathered the implements, and placed it on the coffee table, next to the sofa where his brother lay stretched out.

"You may assist him, Dr. Watson," the businessman encouraged. John looked at the man, and then turned his gaze to Sherlock. "Come, John," Sherlock said quietly, and the doctor dragged his feet towards his friend.

"We need to sit him on this chair," the detective stated flatly.

"No, Sherlock, I can't. This... this isn't right."

"John," his friend snapped impatiently. "Just do it."

His shoulders slumping, the doctor did as told. Together, they secured the British Government, hands behind his back, chains on his feet, and yards of rope tying him to the chair.

"I haven't provided a gag. After all, I think he should get a say in all of this, too, seeing as our little exchange is _bound_ to affect him. Pun intended." The businessman leaned back, and rubbed his hands.

"Now, what was it you wanted in exchange, again?" he asked Sherlock.

"We went over this. I want to see Appledore, and get everything you have on Mary."

"Yes, but I just _looove_ to hear it again. Oh, this is going to be so funny," Magnussen chuckled, an unpleasant sound that could upset even strong constitutions.

"Let me show you something," he told the pair, and pressed a button. Images began playing on a screen on the wall. A bonfire, a screaming little girl, and a bound doctor trapped under the flames. A detective rushing breathlessly to the rescue.

"You- you- you were the one who did this to me!" John yelled.

"Oh, don't worry. You wouldn't have died. I had men standing by, you see."

"So this is what you find funny?" the doctor challenged.

"Oh, no, not at all. That was merely an experiment. What I find funny is this."

Magnussen got up and approached Mycroft, his gait resembling that of a predator stalking his prey. The gleam in his eye was of a predator who was already assured of a fine meal.

He knelt beside the unconscious man and sniffed deeply. He began running his fingers up and down the front of the man's shirt.

"WHAT are you DOING!" the doctor yelled in outrage.

"Magnussen," Sherlock warned, his voice hard.

"Oh, no, no need to get so uncomfortable." He sniffed deeply again, his nose right next to the man's right cheek. "Although I would say he smells delicious. I wonder what he would taste like." CAM licked his lips greedily.

John's complexion turned green, and Sherlock looked thunderous. "Let's get on with the show, Magnussen," he said, a clear threat in his voice.

"The show. The British do so love their little shows, but are unable to tolerate any drama in real life. Always so routine and predictable, tea at four o'clock sharp. It's a wonder a true Brit could ever have agreed to this." With that, the magnate maneuvered the ropes and began unbuttoning the government man's shirt.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, panic in his voice. The detective merely looked down, defeat in his posture.

CAM maneuvered the man's right arm out of his shirt and held it up. He inspected the underarm and then pressed his long, sweaty fingers on one particular spot. "How clever. GPS microchip implants."

Sherlock remained quiet. "You have no doubt arranged for a message to be sent, regarding a very important official's abduction. There will be a team rushing to the rescue, by tracing the microchip. They will find one missing British Government in my place, and do a thorough search. You, of course, having seen Appledore, will oh so helpfully assist them. And your big brother, having waited so long for this opportunity, will be so happy, so proud, he might even forgive you. He might even start realizing that you are all grown up, so clever and resourceful, and will stop treating you like the stupid little boy he thinks you are."

Sherlock had paled considerably, but looked at the news magnate with defiance. "It doesn't help you much, knowing that. They will still come."

"Perhaps. This room _is_ outfitted with the right technology to jam the signal, you know. But you let's say you have a back up plan. Let's say that sometime soon, your brother's PA is going to get an anonymous message with the exact coordinates. I can't prevent that, can I".

"I should think not," Sherlock answered warily.

"Then why am I smiling?" CAM challenged, his voice softened and sinister.

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes widening slightly.

"Ask me," Magnussen urged.

"Why are you smiling?" the younger man asked dutifully.

"Because the great Sherlock Holmes has made on big enormous mistake, which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves, and everyone he holds dear." Magnussen's gleeful tone matched perfectly with the holiday spirit the rest of the world was trying to absorb. Sherlock's expression showed only confusion and alarm.

"Let me show you the Appledore vaults," Magnussen offered graciously.

* * *

 _"Impossible,"_ was Sherlock's first thought. _"He must be pulling one over me."_

Magnussen had just demonstrated his very own Mind Palace technique, leaving the duo thunderstruck. Looking at the magnates self-satisfied face, Sherlock understood that he had indeed been a fool. Magnussen had won.

"What exactly is going on over here?" came a weak, dazed voice from the direction of Mycroft's chair. Unlike the other family members, Mycroft had received a heavier dose, to ensure that he wouldn't wake up too soon. Nevertheless, the drug was starting to wear off by now.

"There's still Mycroft," Sherlock said. "They will find him over here, and press charges."

"Of course they will press charges. Against you and Dr. Watson. There's a lot of evidence. Footage from the helicopter of you two carrying him up, of your own free will. Footage of you tying him up. Your prints are all over the place. I'm not armed, I haven't threatened you. Everything will be on your head."

"Sherlock?" Mycroft questioned, his eyes widening as he started realizing his situation.

"Shut up, Mycroft." Sherlock's tone was antagonistic, but the others could easily pick up on the hint of fear that lay underneath.

"Sherlock," Magnussen said. "Would you like to hear my offer? I will need a bit of time, so I suggest canceling the search party for the menatime."

The detective resolutely typed something into his phone, and then looked up. "Done. Let's hear it then."

"How very nice of you, brother mine, to make your little deals while I sit tied up in this man's home. I thought we had agreed you leave him alone."

"No, I never agreed. You said yourself he wasn't so bad, and you even claimed he was under your protection. Look how he's treating his great protector now," Sherlock shot back angrily.

"You were the one who drugged me. You tied me to this chair. I recognize the particular pattern of knots," Mycroft's voice was quiet, infused with hurt and confusion.

 _This is no good,_ the younger Holmes thought to himself, as feelings of regret and guilt threatened to overwhelm his reason. _Sentiment_ _is a chemical defect found in the losing side. Haven't you taught me that yourself, brother mine? You didn't think I would be using that against you, did you?_

"Perhaps you should have paid a bit more attention, then, when I advised you that you were actually under his thumb. Isn't it ironic, how you said if I go against Magnussen I will be going against you? You never thought your master would betray you in this way, teaming up with me in order to trap you, did you?" Sherlock asked, mustering as much loathing as he could manage.

"Sherlock!" John admonished, horrified. "Mycroft, I'm sorry, this isn't right."

"As if you weren't there every step of the way, John. You have no moral advantage, so take your hypocrisy somewhere else," the detective rounded on his friend.

John closed his mouth and shook his head mutely.

"Wonderful drama, complete with betrayal and shattered hearts. I could sit and watch all day." Magnussen poured himself another drink and smacked his lips heartily.

"No, this stops right now. Let me hear your offer." Sherlock's tone was resolute.

"Hmmmm, let's see, did I explain the pressure point system to you? No? Let's see if two supposedly very intelligent men, and one little soldier, can grasp my system. You see, until several hours ago, those in the know would have considered Mycroft Holmes as the most powerful man in England. Besides me, of course. So let's say I want to own my very own little British Government." Magnussen casually patted said man's cheek as he said that, causing the man to flinch, and the other two to tense.

"So I find my Mycroft's pressure point. Which happens to be the little junkie detective here," Magnussen said, while running a finger along Sherlock's forehead. "Little men sometimes imagine a balance in the universe. If A's pressure point is B, then B's pressure point is A. What a dull little world that would be. Luckily for me, things aren't quite that symmetrical, or I would never be able to do what I do best.

"So now I have Pressure Point Sherlock, and I put little John into the fire. Presto, I've found Sherlock's pressure point. Now, if Pressure Point John has weakness only for Sherlock, the game is over.

"I get lucky again. What do I find next, but a little wife of the little soldier, who happens to be John's pressure point? The rest is easy. The soldier's wife is a naughty, naughty girl. I have so much on her, I can spend an evening by the fireside, entertaining myself with all her delicious exploits.

"I push one domino, and all others fall down. I play this game again and again, and all the simple people go on with their stupid little lives, not realizing who's really in charge.

"Now, Sherlock Holmes, I will propose a bargain, one I wouldn't offer to just anyone. Three for the price of one! It's a Christmas special, valid today only. The lives of John, Mary, and their unborn child, in exchange for Mycroft Holmes."

"You want me to agree to the murder of my brother? Mummy wouldn't be pleased with that."

"Murder? I'm not a murderer, unlike a certain little wife. I'm a businessman. Let me show you." Magnussen rang a bell, and two men entered the room.

"Let me introduce you to my friends, Sasha and Igor."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** I'm too shocked to speak.. I mean write... whatever. Your feedback has been beyond amazing! So I'm giving you another chapter, which is _not_ the last one. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Sherlock observed the two newcomers. Sasha appeared to be a typical muscle-man, over six foot, broadly built, shaven head, dressed in leather, tattoos and piercings. He was also clearly armed. His mouth was stretched into a leer, showing a mouthful of rotten teeth, plus two gold ones. Igor, on the other hand, was well groomed, his clothes dripping money and style. Sherlock had a gut feeling about the roles they were supposed to play.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Igor greeted them. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." His accent was as polished and smooth as the Holmes's. "Especially this gentleman over here. Mycroft Holmes, I presume?" He walked over to the bound man. "I've heard so much about you. I'm sure we will get along splendidly."

John sprang to his feet. "Who exactly are you guys, and what do you think you're doing?"

"Poor little John. Always the last one to understand," Magnussen mocked. "Let me explain it to you, in miniscule words so your pea-sized brain can grasp it. As I said, I'm a businessman. I do deals, trades, exchanges, whatever you wish to call it. What I need is information. These gentlemen can provide it for me, in exchange for one British Government. That's all there is to it."

Sherlock observed Mycroft, looking more like himself now, his expression composed, and his eyes observing the newcomers sharply. He tried to catch his eye, to send him some sort of message, although he wasn't quite sure what. 'I'm sorry,' perhaps? Or, 'this wasn't suppose to happen, this was a mistake?' Or maybe, 'We need a plan, or we're toast.' But his brother wouldn't look at him.

"I don't understand," John said, exasperated.

"You should put it on a t-shirt," the magnate suggested. "Alright, gentlemen, you may have him."

"No," said Sherlock firmly. "Let's go over the terms of the deal. What are we getting out of it? Why should I let you sell my brother to a foreign country, that was never part of the deal!"

"The deal was that I get your brother. What I do with him is my concern now."

"What is all this discussion, Charlie?" Sasha interrupted, in a heavy Russian accent that Sherlock suspected was at least partially an affectation. "In Russia, we don't talk, talk, talk all day, we work. Now, khurry up, we need to go."

Igor said some words to Sasha in fluent Russian, and the thug shut up. "Why don't we sit down and discuss this properly?" The well-dressed Russian said smoothly. "Let's have some drinks. Oh, and there's no need for such extreme measures," he gestured towards Mycroft. "Nobody will be going anywhere until we finished."

Igor waved his hand languidly, and Sasha advanced towards Mycroft. "No, let me," Sherlock blurted out. The least he could do was prevent another thug from touching his brother, even if it was only to unbind him. He approached and knelt down next to Mycroft, gently removing the cuffs and chains, and then cutting the ropes. He worked as quickly as he could, not daring to look into his brother's eyes and see the pain and humiliation he was suffering.

"Much better, brother mine," he heard Mycroft say, in his usual sarcastic tone, and the younger one dared to look up, still kneeling by his chair. Sherlock allowed his face to show all the regret he was feeling, as well as the helplessness and anguish at the situation he had gotten them all in. Mycroft's eyes were hard, his gaze penetrating, as the brothers looked at each other for several moments. Then Sherlock recognized a minute softening in the frigid blue eyes, a spark of understanding, and even forgiveness. That would have to be enough for now.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Sherlock retorted snarkily. "You are the life of the party, and the party is about to start."

"I hope there won't be anything in the punch this time," Mycroft said facetiously.

"Something in the punch? I have no idea what you're talking about. It isn't my fault that you're a complete lightweight."

"Quiet, you two. Let Igor talk," Sasha said testily, looming over the both of them. Sherlock got up and sat down next to John, while Mycroft stretched and rubbed his hands.

"Okay, listen up, everyone," Igor began. "My government would like to have Mycroft Holmes as a guest, just for a short little while. His presence can enhance our negotiations with your country, perhaps get them off our backs for a while. Then there are the Americans, who are allied with your little country here, and we might get something out of them too, if the United Kingdom is prepared to negotiate for that. I won't bore you with all the details of our foreign relations issues, as I'm sure Mycroft here, and Charles, of course, understand them already, and you two won't be any more enlightened even if I do attempt to explain."

"You won't get away with this," Sherlock told the man harshly. "Our government won't look too kindly on the abduction of such an important official."

"No, you're wrong," Igor smiled at him condescendingly. "They can't go complain about it, can they, since Mycroft Holmes officially holds only a minor position in the British government. Also, there won't be any direct negotiations, it will all be through third parties, and no one will be able to prove that we've got him."

"Third parties... You mean Magnussen and me."

"Of course," the Russian agent agreed. "We will return him after a while, if we get what we wanted. That will be a part of the negotiations."

"Lovely." This time, it was the intended hostage himself who spoke up. "I think you're on overestimating both my importance, and our government's willingness to negotiate with terrorists like you."

Igor smiled dangerously. "We shall see about that."

"This entire discussion is ridiculous, as well as superfluous," the detective burst out. "Come on, John, Mycroft, we're leaving. I'd like to see any of you trying to stop us."

"Go ahead. Of course you're free to leave. Take your soldier friend, and your big brother. I will keep what I have, of course, since the deal is off."

Sherlock whipped around to face Magnussen. _"_ _What did you do?"_

"Nothing, yet. I've only secured my bargaining chip."

With a sudden dawning understanding, John turned white hot with rage. He flew at Magnussen, trying to physically attacked him, but was held back by Sasha's strong grip. " _What did you do to my wife!"_ he screamed, bucking and clawing at the thug holding him. " _What did you do to Mary, you monster!"_

"Really, such dramatics. It isn't quite necessary. Your little murderous wife is safe, being held by my people on an undisclosed location. She and the little one are being taken very good care of. They say it will be a little girl, don't they? I wonder if she will have the same temper like her daddy, or perhaps she will be as cunning and naughty like her mummy."

The doctor began hyperventilating at that point, and Sherlock placed a firm hand on his friend's back. "Let me take care of this, John. Just keep calm."

"So you have Mary. What happens when we walk out?"

"I make a few phone calls. To old friends of Mrs. Watson, who would be _so_ glad to hear about her. They would probably love to visit, too. They might want to talk about some old grudges, and perhaps work it out with her. Who knows?"

John was clamping his lips tightly together, while Sherlock assessed the magnate. Mycroft smiled coldly at CAM. "I suppose I'll go along with your little game for now, but be aware, you won't get away with this for long."

Magnussen smiled happily. "Yes, you can arrest me, but you will still have to find a judge and jury to convict me. You English are so earnestly law-abiding, you make me laugh. You won't try any underhanded tricks, I'm too well known for you to make me disappear. Your goose is cooked. But let's leave the final choice for Little Brother over here. Sherlock, make your choice; three for one, or one for three?"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. His head felt as if on fire, bursting with so many details, possibilities, and choices that he couldn't keep up.

"I can't," he nearly whimpered.

"I can throw in some free offers to help you decide," Igor said in mock sympathy. He stood behind Mycroft's chair and put a hand on his shoulder. "Your dear brother will get back without even a scratch. He will be put up as an honored guest, all on our tab."

"Of course. I know your techniques," Sherlock said bitterly. He ran through the possibilities in his mind. The KGB used to be famous for their psychological tortures as much as their physical ones. Although officially abolished, Sherlock was sure that the "special methods" were still in use, for "special guests" like Mycroft. They would break Mycroft's mind, while his body remained whole.

Ironically, the Holmes brother's were both mentally fragile in a way, not despite, but because, of their superlative minds. A genius mind needed stimulation, or it would rip itself apart. Conversely, if presented with too much stimulation, the constant stream of information that bombarded it would overwhelm the psyche, causing a mental shutdown. That's why the Holmes brother's both needed to retreat into peace and quiet at frequent intervals, in order to sort through and organize their thoughts, and to take a break from outside stimulation, so their hard drive wouldn't overheat, so to speak.

Put Mycroft Holmes in an empty, quiet room for several weeks, with no human contact, no books, no people or things to deduce, and he will lose his mind. Alternately, bombard him with stimuli, lights, sounds, people, and questions, deprive him of sleep, and his brain will shut down. If done for long enough, it might even break.

Sherlock smiled suddenly. "You know, you're going about this all wrong," he said serenely.

"What, you khave better plan?" Sasha asked keenly. By now, Sherlock was convinced that his heavy accent and bad grammar was part of the charade he played, as the thug had to be much more intelligent then he portrayed himself, judging by the shrewd way he was taking everything in. Sherlock had underestimated an enemy before, and was now in a pickle because of it. It wouldn't do to make the same mistakes again. He would have to be very, very, careful.

"Yes, I do. Magnussen here, all he wants is information from you, I suppose about the influential people on your country."

"I've always wanted to have a real country, instead of this dumpy little place over here," CAM interrupted. "The Russian Bear, that's a challenge, now. They know how to fight, over there, instead of being passive little lambs. This should be most amusing."

"Shut up," the detective said testily, and turned to the two foreigners. "In exchange, you want influence over the British government, which you get in the former of Mycroft Holmes. I can offer you something much better than that, that will still have all parties satisfied."

"Alright, let's hear it," Igor said curiously. "What are you offering?"

Sherlock grinned again. "Me."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** You still get one more chapter after this one. This story would not have been the same without your amazing support.

Also, please excuse my Russian. I got it from Google translate. Below is the translation of the Russian words I used in this chapter.

 _Malchik:_ boy

 _Molchi:_ shut up

 _Umnyy:_ clever

 _Idiotskiy_ : idiot

 _Nepokornyy:_ Unruly

 _Khlopotnyy:_ Troublesome

Thank you for reading, and please review!

* * *

Sasha reacted to his statement by roaring with laughter.

"Why you think we need you, _malchik_?" he wheezed out. "You are little boy, stupid. What you can give us?"

" _Molchi,_ " Igor said sternly. "Very interesting proposal, Sherlock Holmes. How would that accomplish our goals?"

"You want the British government to cooperate with you. Why not have Mycroft himself accomplish that? If you have me, you have an incentive for him to cooperate. You don't even have to risk the backlash you would get if you take Mycroft out of the country."

Igor shot a look at Sasha, who began roaring with laughter once again. "You are _umnyy malchik._ But you also _idiotskiy malchik._ We make Big Brudder our puppet, very nice. You save Big Brudder from Big Bad Bear. But you come to us, you stay. We don't send you home so fast, you understand?"

Mycroft was observing Sasha keenly. "Say, how's my good friend Vladimir doing these days?" he inquired casually. "I haven't seen him in quite a while."

Sasha looked at Mycroft with narrowed eyes. "Which Vladimir? There are many in Russia." He guffawed.

"The one who was your direct superior in your country's former secret service. The one with whom you go hunting for polar bears."

"Actually, it was a Siberian tiger that time," Sasha said, his words now containing barely a trace of an accent. "Vlad shot it with a tranquilizer. I was the one who spotted it first," he said proudly.

"Is he still keeping up with his judo practice?" Mycroft asked conversationally.

"He's more into scuba diving now days. I join him sometimes, but not the horse riding. I can't stand horses."

"But you do love co-piloting on his jets," the British man reparteed.

"Sherlock," John whispered. "You know whom they're talking about?"

"Former high-ranking KGB agent, still has high clearance, into extreme sports, made Mycroft's acquaintance, and is named Vladimir. Could only be one man."

"You don't mean..." John said, flabbergasted.

"He's better known as president of his country.

"They said you were good," Sasha regarded Mycroft thoughtfully. "They weren't wrong. Tell me, if we take Baby Brother over here, will you play along nicely? How about you give us a little something now, so we can see you will cooperate?"

Mycroft grinned unpleasantly. "Yes, please do take this menace off my hands. I have made a promise to Mummy, but that can only go so far. His idiocy is costing me more and more, by the day. Have fun with him, perhaps you can get someone to pay his ransom."

"So you won't cooperate?"

"Sasha, my friend, let me ask you this. Have you ever seen a man so willing to sell his brother out? I sacrificed so much resources for this foolish boy, who gets himself into trouble time and again. Then he ties me up and sells me to the highest bidder. You think I care what you do to him now? Please take him, I can't bear this anymore. If he makes more trouble, at least it will be on your heads, and not on mine. His behavior will no longer bring shame on me."

"You do have a point, Mr. Holmes," Igor spoke up. "If that would be my brother, I would 'arrange' a little accident, and then breathe a little easier."

"Perhaps you can offer some tips" Mycroft suggested sardonically.

Magnussen was watching the exchange with glee. Sherlock was looking distressed. John was working himself up into a fury. "I can't believe this! So all of your 'constant concern' was a farce? Just a way to keep him from trouble, so you shouldn't be humiliated? Now you're talking about murdering him in cold blood! Have you no shame?" He short frame was now towering over the seated government worker.

"John," Sherlock said softly. "Stop. You, too, Mycroft. You aren't fooling anybody."

Mycroft looked startled. "What do you mean?"

The younger brother looked the older on in the eye. "You are trying to be kind. You're trying to prevent them from using me as your pressure point. You want them to take you, and leave me out of the equation. But your acting is terrible, so stop it."

The two brothers gazed at each other for a long minute, words and emotions passing silently through them.

"You were away for two years, brother mine," Mycroft broke the silence, his voice heavy. "You cannot do this again. You won't survive."

"Fieldwork is not your natural milieu," Sherlock shot his brother's own words back at him. "And you're not as strong as you think. Besides, I got us all into this mess. I need to suffer the consequences for my actions."

"No, wait," John interrupted desparately. "This isn't right. You are doing this to save my family." He turned to the Russians. "Perhaps I should be the bargaining chip? Mycroft and Sherlock will cooperate with you if you have me. You've seen what they're willing to do to save me. I won't give you any trouble, either, unlike these two."

Igor looked flummoxed, while Sasha was grinning widely. "What do you say to the lot of them, Charlie? They are so idealistic, so sincere. They think they get credit for being self-sacrificing. This is so funny, the best entertainment I've had in a long time."

"That's why I have succeeded where such people never will," Magnussen answered. "If you want success, it's every man for himself. Having ano there person as a pressure point makes you weak, and will destroy you in the end."

Sherlock was struck by the similarities in Magnussen's monologue and his own philosophy. "Sentiment is a chemical defects found on the losing side," and "caring is not an advantage," had always been the Holmes brother's credo. But they had both failed to live up to it. They had allowed themselves to care, Mycroft about Sherlock, Sherlock about John, and now they were suffering the consequences.

Mycroft was now engaging Sasha in conversation, held in fluent Russian. Mycroft spoke fifteen languages fluently, and had a reasonable grasp of another seven. Sherlock couldn't keep up with their Russian, but he could make out some words and deduce the rest.

They were obviously discussing him, judging by how much the word _malchik_ was being bandied around. It wasn't fair that he was considered a little boy, just because he happened to be the younger brother. They would never take him seriously when his older, smarter, more powerful brother was there. Sherlock shook his head in frustration, and then concentrated on the conversation again.

" _Nepokornyy,"_ and _"khlopotnyy"_ were two flattering adjectives that surely referred to him. What was he, indeed, if not unruly and troublesome? Mycroft was convincing Sasha, (who was indeed more intelligent than he first appeared, and was probably in charge, and only playing the role of a dumb thug) that Sherlock would present far too much trouble for them. Now he was reminding them who had single-handedly (well, almost, he did use some of Mycroft's resources) taken down Moriarty's network. The Russians would never be able to hold him, Mycroft asserted.

Now Mycroft was presenting himself as the better option, preferring diplomacy and cooperation to resistance. He claimed to have been seated behind a desk for years, and wouldn't be at risk for escape. Sherlock knew that to be a bunch of hogwash, mixed with a smidgen of truth, but didn't argue. He had lost this round, anyway.

"So, we'll be off," Sasha said cheerfully. "We'll be in touch with Little Brother, who will help us smuggle Big Brother out. It won't be easy, not with the heightened security the government will be sure to install now. But you're good, aren't you, Sherlock Holmes? I'm sure Big Brother is proud."

Sherlock walked over to Sasha, until he was standing almost nose to nose with the man. He spoke in a voice so frigid that it was truly worthy of his sociopathic label. "I can assure you, that if I don't get my brother back exactly the same as he is now, in body and in mind, I will personally assure your very miserable end."

Sasha stared back without answering. John came over to join them, and told the big Russian earnestly, "I'm not Sherlock Holmes, but I can and will join him in ending you if anything happens to Mycroft." His voice was calm and conversational.

"You should listen to him," the detective advised Sasha. "He's had bad days." He smirked coldly.

"Alright, no worries. You have my word," Sasha answered in a serious tone. "I actually kind of like him. He's a clever one. I wouldn't want to ruin such a marvelous mind, would I?"

The detective and his friend were not very reassured. They watched as the two Russians bound Mycroft again, "a little precaution," as Igor explained. They were gentle enough, Sherlock noticeD. Sasha then produced a blindfold, and Sherlock suddenly yelled, "Wait!"

"Yes, _malchik_?" Sasha asked politely.

"There's one thing I need to tell my brother." He paused and looked at Mycroft intently. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft," he said, his voice catching minutely when saying his brother's name.

Mycroft smiled at him, a smile that was both wry and understanding. "And a Happy New Year, brother mine," he answered quietly.

Sherlock watched as his older brother was blindfolded, then led away, engaged in a friendly conversation with his captors. He swallowed.

"Magnussen," he said flatly. "We need Mary back. Now."

"Good job, Sherlock. You've exchanged one brother for the other one. Your self-made family has superseded your biological one. How does that feel?" He smiled a sickly sweet smile.

"Do we have to do that now?" the detective growled.

"You've always resented your brother so much. I have some lovely footage of you and your brother, courtesy of the cameras I installed in your flat. You got so aggressive, the little doctor was afraid you were going to snap him in half. Aren't you glad you managed to get rid of him? No more interference, no more lecturesurprised. You are free now," Magnussen continued taunting.

"Release Mary, and then we'll talk," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

"Alright, a deal is a deal." CAM punched something into his phone. "She should be home, safe and sound, in about an hour. Don't make me cancel this by doing something as foolish as, say, hurrying after Big Brother. Remember, she's still mine."

John breathed a noticeable sigh of relief, and then sat down shaking, the adrenalin leaving him in a rush. The detective slapped his forehead theatrically. "Oh, my, I forgot. How silly of me."

The other two looked at him expectantly. Sherlock examined their position and stances carefully. He had only one chance to do this right.

Sherlock walked over to stand behind John's chair. He was now facing a seated Magnussen. "I brought you a Christmas present, Magnussen. I also gave one to John." The lives of his family were just as good a Christmas present as any jumper wrapped in shiny paper, weren't they?

"But I didn't give one to Mycroft." Sherlock prodded John to get up, and discreetly relieved him of his gun while doing so.

"What would you get your beloved brother now?" Magnussen asked in amusement.

"You."

The gun fired, straight at Magnussen's forehead.

"Merry Christmas, you bastard!" Sherlock yelled, before pushing John to the floor and sinking to his knees.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Hey, I hope this makes some sort of sense, although it's probably not very realistic. There will be an epilogue following this chapter, involving some serious talks and bromance, etc. For now, enjoy the adventure:)

* * *

Sherlock held John pinned to the floor, and hissed, "Stay down!" when he struggled. John got the message and didn't move a muscle. Sherlock kneeled on the carpet, holding his hands high above his head, and waited.

Pounding, running footsteps. The detective let out a shaky breath of relief. The door was opened, and several men burst in, weapons at the ready, taking positions around the room. A slight woman followed them in, holding a handgun.

"Anthea," Sherlock breathed. "They've got Mycroft."

Anthea turned to one of the men. "Situation?" she queried. "Man down. Area clear," the agent responded.

The woman then turned to look at Sherlock, which spoke up. "Magnussen. It was me. Look, you can take me in later. Right now, Mycroft is in danger, and we need to find him."

She nodded sharply, and gestured to the agents to stand down. The detective lowered his arms. "It's alright, John, you can get up now." The ex-army doctor got up, wearing a horrified expression on his face. "Sherlock," he whispered hoarsely. "What have you done?"

"Go back to Mary, John," his friend replied, not meeting his eyes. "Tell her she's safe. You're all safe now."

Another man entered the room, obviously paged by Anthea. "Mr. Holmes," he greeted. "I'm afraid we need some answers before we let anyone go."

"Of course, Sir Edwin," Sherlock replied. "But John wasn't involved. I dragged him here, without him knowing what the plan was."

The detective proceeded to give a brief rundown of the previous events. He mentioned Magnussen having blackmail material on Mary, without specifying the details. He explained that when Magnussen told him to call them off, he instead sent a coded message to Anthea to have troops at the ready, but to stay out unless the situation got out of hand. The sound of a gunshot had been enough to bring them running.

"What do we now?" Sir Edwin asked Sherlock, frowning.

"We wait. They should be contacting me pretty soon. They wouldn't risk holding Mycroft an extra second in this country."

Sir Charles Edwin, head of MI6, mulled his options. "Alright," he said finally. "My agents will escorts Dr. Watson home, and keep an eye on him and his wife. I'll have a team scour this place, and you, Mr. Holmes, will wait for the foreign agents to contact you, and we will see what options we have left afterwards. When this operation is over, hopefully with the utmost success, we will need to take you in for questioning."

"Understood," said Sherlock, setting his jaw firmly.

"No. Let me stay here and help. This is all my fault," John interrupted, his voice heavy with guilt.

"John, Mary needs you now. Please, go home and keep an eye on her. She hasn't had an easy day, I'm sure."

The doctor stood silently, looking torn. He then looked to Anthea. "Take care of him please, Ms. Whatever-your-name-is. Make sure he doesn't get into too much trouble."

The pretty woman smiled. "You may call me Anthea. And I will. My boss wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

After half-an-hour, Sherlock's phone rang. Igor was on the line.

"Igor, let me speak to Sasha. There have been some complications."

"Listen, boy, don't start making problems now," Igor said menacingly. "We have your brother, and I have my gun, which I won't hesitate to use."

"Magnussen is dead," Sherlock said calmly. A torrent of extreme Russian swearing was heard from the other end of the line. After a moment, Sasha was finally on the phone.

"You're making a lot of trouble today, _malchik_ ," he said. "Your brother was just telling me about some of your adventures. Life is never boring with you around, is it?" he said cheerfully.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, partly in exasperation, and partly out of anxiety. "Listen, Sasha," he ventured. "The game is over. Bring Mycroft back, and give yourselves up. You will only get into more trouble if you don't."

"Not so fast, my friend," the Russian answered. "I have no interest in being a guest of the British government. I love Mother Russia too much for that. You give us a plane, we'll take Big Brother, and send him back once we're home."

"What guarantee do I have that you'll send him back?" the detective asked bluntly.

Sasha chuckled. "My word isn't enough, I suppose? I'm sorry, I don't have anything else to give you."

"Let me speak with Mycroft," Sherlock requested.

"You know what, let me put him on speaker. Oh, and I know you're tracing this call. I might as well give you the address. We're inside the house. You may stay outside, but don't try any tricks if you value your brother's life."

The address was relayed, and a team was immediately deployed to surround the house where Mycroft was being held. Sherlock had never thought he would be so happy to hear his brother's annoying voice.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft voice was weak and hoarse.

"Give him some water, for goodness sake!" the younger Holmes yelled, knowing the captors were listening to every word. "Mycroft, did they hurt you in any way? Because I made a promise, you know."

"I'm alright, brother dear. Just some aftereffects from the drugs and all the excitement."

"They want a plane. And they want you on it. What do you say about that?"

"I can't say I fancied a trip. However, I might have an idea. Let me talk this over with my good friend Sasha, and see if he approves."

Sherlock listened in bewilderment as the British Government began talking to the Russian thug, using the same neutral, diplomatic tone that he used while seated at his desk. Mycroft very politely explained how his kidnapping would make some major players in the EU and UN very unhappy, and of course the UK government would be less than pleased. Sasha politely rejoined that his superiors would be very unhappy if the two agents would end up trapped in England.

Mycroft suggested his plan, which lead Sasha to guffaw. "Oh, I would love to do that! I should try that with Vlad, sometime. Speaking of which, I need to make a call. Excuse me for a moment."

The Russian had apparently left the room, and Sherlock continued holding the phone, listening to his brother breathing. "Mycroft, did you remember to eat your Christmas pudding?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

"I might have forgotten," the older one answered, his voice still sounding exhausted.

The detective scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Anthea. It read, "Mycroft sends report: several other agents in house, isn't sure how many." It was a good thing the brothers had some messages rendered into code. Of course, using Mycroft's unfortunate dieting had been Sherlock's idea.

Sasha came back with the cheerful announcement that the plan had been approved. Sir Edwin then talked to Mycroft and made some calls, and eventually gave his approval. Operation Christmas Present was a go.

* * *

Sherlock was brought to the residence by helicopter. He approached the house with his hands in the air. He was quickly pulled in and thoroughly searched by two big men. Then he was led into another room, where Mycroft was being held.

The British Government was still tied up, but the blindfold was off. "Hello, brother mine," Sherlock greeted. "We seem to be seeing an awful lot of each other recently."

"Definitely the worst part of this little adventure," Mycroft retorted sardonically. Sherlock scrutinized him, and realized that he looked paler and more exhausted than before. He turned to a guard. "You will untie him, and give him some nourishment. You don't want to face the consequences if he passes out, or worse," he said threateningly.

Mycroft looked a bit surprised by the fierceness in Sherlock's tone. "Don't get all worked up now, Sherlock," he said quietly. "We still have a long way to go."

The guard muttered some words into his radio, and Sasha entered the room a moment later. He began berating the guards for leaving Mycroft in that state, and soon enough, Mycroft was untied, and a fresh meal ordered.

Sherlock partook of the most surreal feast he had ever attended. Quality food with fine wine, complete with five guards stationed around the room, holding semi-automatics. Sasha and Igor had joined the meal, and there was lively conversation going on between the two Russians and the British civil servant. Sherlock just observed then quietly.

"The plane is ready," Sasha suddenly announced. "We have a car to the airport."

The Holmes brothers were hustled into a van, and began the first leg of their journey. They were escorted by several police cars, both marked and unmarked. Sherlock sat next to Mycroft, who was looking a bit perkier. "Mycroft," he muttered, "If anything goes wrong, it's all my fault." His brother looked at him keenly. "I just wanted to say...I'm sorry."

In response, Sherlock felt Mycroft's hand on his upper arm, squeezing gently. There were some things that just couldn't be put into words, and didn't even have to. He leaned in a bit to his brother's touch, and stayed that way for the rest of the ride.

The plane was small but well furbished. The Russians checked the interior, the fuel level, and the general condition of the plane. Then the party silently boarded.

Their plane was surrounded by several British aircraft, who assured that the correct route was followed. The small plane was piloted by a Russian agent, and the ride was smooth. They flew East, until they passed over a small country, that was officially neutral towards both parties, and had consented to be involved in the scheme.

Sasha and Igor came over to the brothers. "This is where you get off," Sasha smiled, his gold teeth glinting. "It's been a pleasure to get to know you, Mr. Holmes," he told Mycroft. "The pleasure is mine," Mycroft retorted, "although I do hope our next meeting will be on my turf. I can assure you, our hospitality is better than yours."

Sasha chuckled, then, to the brothers' surprise, held out a large hand. Mycroft took it, and gave a single firm shake. "Honestly," Sasha continued. "I think this has been a big mistake. I hope we can deal further through more diplomatic means. You are quite an interesting man, Mycroft."

He then turned to Sherlock. "And you, _malchik,_ you are a silly little boy. Anyone else would know to appreciate such a brother, who is so ready to sacrifice himself for his foolish little brother. Your big brother has remarkable patience with you. Make sure you don't test it to much, eh?"

Sherlock didn't respond. The plane came to a standstill, and the parachute was prepared. Sherlock noticed Mycroft turning a little green. How ironic, he thought, that the man who didn't flinch at being kidnapped and held at gunpoint, had still never fully overcome his fear of heights. Ironic as it was, Sherlock didn't find it the least bit humorous at the moment.

"We'll be doing the tandem dive, of course," he addressed his older brother. "You're in no shape to go skydiving yourself. No surprise there, you were never much in shape for anything, we're you."

"And you'll be controlling the darned thing, won't you," Mycroft stated wryly. "Always looking to wrest control from me."

" _You're_ talking about control, how tellng," Sherlock jibed back. The familiar banter had somewhat steadied them, reduced their nerves. Two guards helped them with the gear, and pretty soon, Sherlock was attached to Mycroft, his front to Mycroft's back. Sherlock heard the slight change in Mycroft's breathing, coming out in short, noisy spurts. He placed both of his hands on his brother's shoulders and squeezed firmly. "I've got you now, Mycroft, and I won't let go. Wherever we end up, we'll at least be together." He held his hands in place, and heard Mycroft's breathing slowing down.

The two outfitted men waddled over to the door, and stood, waiting. Suddenly, the hairs on Sherlock's neck pickled. Someone was standing very, very close to them.

"I'm so sorry, my friend," he heard Igor's smooth voice, and felt his gun press into his neck. "I'm afraid I will have to give you a little farewell present. A little hit on your head with this little beauty her, before you leave. You will have a nice trip down, without the aid of the parachute opening. What a tragedy. The parachute was faulty! You hit your head when you fell. We will be so sad, but we can't be held responsible, can we?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, desparately attempting to hold back a sudden urge to scream. If he had to die, he would do so with dignity. But they had been close, so close. Why was everything going wrong today?

He nearly went into shock when he heard the sound of a gunshot. "Why did he shoot me?" he thought frantically, and began mentally searching for the spot the bullet had penetrated. He felt nothing.

He did hear a thump from behind him, and realized that Igor had fallen. Then there was another voice at his back. "Idiot, that man," Sasha remarked. "Don't worry about him, he'll live to face some very unpleasant consequences. Take care, my friends. Sherlock, do take care if your brother. The world needs more men like him."

"I will," Sherlock promised, before he wrapped his arms around Mycroft, who had his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder, and jumped out of the open door. Together, they flew gently through the air, clutching at one another for dear life, until their gentle landing.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** The adventure is over, I'm afraid. Your fantactic feedback left me delirious with joy. I wonder if you can get the reviews in this story into three digits;) Enjoy the feels!

* * *

Sherlock immediately disengaged the gear, and turned to Mycroft. "Well, that was fun, wasn't it?" he asked him. Mycroft didn't respond. His face looked rather gray. "Sherlock," he said quietly. "Tell them... keep an eye... you," he whispered, and promptly passed out.

They were picked up by helicopter and the medics worked on Mycroft on their way back to England. "He will be alright," a medical reassured Sherlock. "Just a bit too much excitement."

"He never liked heights," Sherlock replied, frowning. The medics insisted on checking the detective, too, and found him in decent condition. Mycroft regained consciousness about half-way through the journey, and immediately called for Sherlock. "Are you alright?" he asked his younger brother in concern. "Well, _I_ wasn't the one who fainted after a little jump," Sherlock scoffed. They passed the rest of the ride silently, Mycroft still confined to a stretcher, and Sherlock not moving from his side.

Sherlock exited the helicopter first, and walked silently over to the group of agents waiting for him. He spread out his hands a bit. "Do you need to cuff me first?" he asked politely. The agent in charge waved his hand in dismissal and ordered him to follow them into a black car.

* * *

Mycroft was taken to a hospital, despite his protests, and given an IV for slight dehydration. He was offered some Valium, but declined. His eyes lit up when Anthea swept into the room and hour after his admittance. "Anthea," he breathed, clinging to the name like a lifeline.

"Sir," she said. "Sir," she repeated, a tiny catch in her voice,and a suspicious brightness in her eyes. "I'm glad you're alright."

"That's largely in your credit," he replied gently, grinning. She grinned back.

"Where's Sherlock?" he asked suddenly.

"He's safe," she replied promptly. Her answer caused alarm bells to ring in his head.

"Safe?" he asked sharply.

She wouldn't meet his eyes. "He was taken in for questioning. It's a necessary part of the procedure," she answered flatly.

"Who's in charge?" he asked shortly.

"Bailey."

"Let me speak to him."

"Sir," she said urgently. "He's got his orders from the very top. I'm not sure it would be wise to interfere."

Mycroft inhaled sharply. "I only want to know if he was allowed a stop at Baker Street."

Her eyes flashed understanding. "You think?"

"I'm never sure, but right now, I'm as close to certainty as I can."

She immediately began typing on her phone. "It's too late. Sherlock left Baker Street half-an-hour ago, and is currently in a holding room at headquarters. Mycroft swore for a minute straight, ignoring the surprise on Anthea's face.

"Let's go," he ordered, and to his relief, she didn't protest.

Barely twenty minutes later, he was at headquarters. He was led to the room holding Sherlock, an armed guard at the door. He let himself in quietly, and heard the door lock behind him. He stood straight, hands behind his back, and observed his little brother slumped all over an armchair, eyes closed.

Several minutes passed in silence. Mycroft knew that Sherlock was aware of his presence, and also that Mycroft knew it, and was deliberately ignoring him. Mycroft ended the silence by speaking up softly. "The list, Sherlock."

"What list?" came the apathetic response, of the man still half-lying, with his eyes closed.

"Don't try to play innocent," said Mycroft in a much harsher tone.

"You are turning paranoid with your suspicions. There is no list, and I didn't take anything. Now shove off, and go finish eating your cake." Sherlock's voice had turned venomous.

"You're muscles are twitching, your breathing is too rapid- oh." Mycroft stopped in mid-deduction and marched up to Sherlock. "Roll up your sleeves. Both of them."

"I didn't inject!" the younger man protested.

"I know," Mycroft said calmly. "Now, do it, or I'll get someone to do it for you."

Shooting his brother a hateful glare, Sherlock rolled up his sleeves. There were three nicotine patches attached- on each arm.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft breathed. "He began frantically ripping them off, ignoring his brother's protests. Then he gave his little brother his most disappointed look. "Sherlock, what have you done?"

To his surprise, Sherlock chuckled. "What have I done? Not much. Not much at all." He laughed harder. "Let's see, I dragged my best friend into danger because I was an arrogant sod, overconfident sod. Oh, and then I shot a man in the head. Just. Like. That. What else? Little things. I betrayed my country." His laughter continued, bitter, with an edge of hysteria. "Probably earned myself a life sentence for murder and high treason. But that's not the best part."

He stopped laughing suddenly, and became deadly serious. "I kidnapped you, and basically sold you to a monster. I betrayed my own flesh and blood."

"Yes, you did," said Mycroft quietly.

"Then why are you here?" Sherlock asked in confusion. Mycroft read between the lines. _Why do you still care?_

"For the same reason you were there when I was held hostage. For the same reason you were on the plane." He paused. "I knew you were planning something, you know."

"I figured as much. Why did you play along?"

"Honestly, I misread your intentions. I thought you'll take my laptop. I didn't really want you to do it, but I knew nothing would stop you from saving your friend and his family. If I had thwarted you then, you would just have come up with another plan, probably even more dangerous."

"So that's why you said... what you said. About my loss," Sherlock deduced, still not looking at Mycroft.

"Yes. I wanted you to be careful. And I wanted you to know, if any thing happened..."

"And then I tied you up, and delivered you to a madman."

"Yes. You do seem to come up with the most inventive ways to get rid of me."

Sherlock breathed heavily. "I didn't..."

"I know."

"I do think you're annoying, though."

"Of course."

"Mycroft, don't you think there's something wrong with us? How in the world did we ever get to this?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. I wish I did." There was regret in Mycroft's voice.

"You would never have done that to me. No matter what."

Mycroft closed his eyes in thought. "You did it for Dr. Watson. Because he is your pressure point."

"According to Magnussen, I am yours."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock piercingly. "Why me, though?"

"Magnussen wanted you, obviously."

"No, I mean why always me? Why is it always me that you're ready to sacrifice first? No matter what I give you, I only receive your hostility in return. I must be doing something wrong. Tell me what it is. I don't want to be the kind of brother who instills so much resentment that his own brother would be willing to sell him at the drop of a hat."

Sherlock was taken aback, not only by the open and frank words of his brother, but by the genuine pain and desperation behind it.

"Why you? Because, honestly, I thought you don't care that much."

"No, that's not true, Sherlock, and you know it," Mycroft insisted firmly.

"Because you are the only one who would forgive me!" the younger man blurted. "If I treat anyone else the way I do you, they would instantly desert me. Even... John. It took him ages to forgive me for deceiving him, and all I meant to do was save his life."

Sherlock's voice was now breaking. "I had to show him I was serious about saving him, to make up for everything. I can't lose him, not again."

"I see," said Mycroft neutrally. "So I will now let you know, that I will never forgive you." He paused, looking at Sherlock's broken face. "If you ever do that again."

The younger brother quirked his lips. "I deserved that, didn't I?"

"Yes. But Sherlock, you did come through in the end."

"Hmm, yes, I was afraid you'll cause another Russian revolution, and you know what war would do for the traffic."

"That would indeed be catastrophic."

"Although I think ruling over the largest country in the world would suit your ego."

They continued the banter for several minutes, until Mycroft looked at his watch. "As _pleasant_ as this was," he drawled in his usual sardonic manner, "I do need to get you out of here before you cause too much trouble here."

"You can't, Mycroft," Sherlock said sadly. "Not this time."

"Why can't I release an agent who executed his mission to perfection? When we planned this mission, we thought Magnussen had vaults. We also weren't aware of Mary's capture, and the Russian involvement. We had to improvise, and I let myself be taken, while signaling to you to take the suspect down. You were just following orders."

Sherlock stared at him wide-eyed. "That isn't what happened."

"It is now," Mycroft said smugly.

"Sherlock, whatever happened is in the past now," Mycroft added somberly. "The Watson's are safe. Speaking or which, you should really have a talk with Dr. Watson about how much he expects from you. I think you'd find his perception of your friendship a bit different from what you think it is.

"You are safe. So am I. And there's one more dragon that you've slayed. The nightmare is over."

"You mean Christmas?" Sherlock teased.

"Yes," Mycroft replied.

He turned to leave. "Mycroft," Sherlock called after him. "I want you to know that I gave you a Christmas present, too."

"Oh?"

"Magnussen. I shot him for you. Not for Mary, or anyone else."

Mycroft swallowed. "Be careful. You sound an awful lot like you might care."

"So do you, you hypocrite."

Mycroft huffed. "I might as well give you something, too. Only the one, of course."

He grabbed his brother in an embrace. "You're forgiven, you foolish child," he murmured, as he felt Sherlock hugging him back.


End file.
